


Teeth

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Animal Play, Collars, Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8395975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Finrod goads Caranthir into fun.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He isn’t really _supposed_ to be here anymore, but it’s not as forbidden to him as it is to Ñolofinwë’s line; the sons of Arafinwë can still get through the gates. So Findaráto comes when he can to meet his waiting cousin, surreptitiously or otherwise. 

Today is more so than usual. He’s careful in his route to stick to common areas, not just off to that one secluded wing, then waits at the crux of a staircase so he can obscure his destination.

He doesn’t have to wait long. His mark keeps a tight schedule, and sure enough, Morifinwë is soon marching down the hall, turning up from the path to the training pit. Findaráto puts one foot on the first step as though about to ascend, but then turns to his cousin and stills, smiling brightly. Morifinwë frowns, like he always does, and casts a few piercing looks about the corridor, but they’re alone. No witnesses. His gate increases, until he’s storming over, and he doesn’t stop when he reaches Findaráto—just sweeps one arm around Findaráto’s slender waist and practically drags him off to the side. Findaráto’s ushered into an empty storeroom before he can offer so much as a greeting, the door slammed firmly shut behind them. 

As soon as they’re in that privacy, Morifinwë swoops in. His hand slides to Findaráto’s hip, fingers digging in to hold, and he rams forward, but Findaráto swiftly dodges to the side. Morifinwë’s kiss misses by several centimeters. His dark brow knits together in confusion as he pulls back, annoyance on his handsome face. He always comes out aggressive, but it’s worse at times like this, when Findaráto catches him just coming from practice with a sword. Findaráto did that on purpose. He likes the way Morifinwë smells when he’s drenched in sweat beneath his tunic, his black hair a frantic mess from the wind, his breath already heavy with exertion. He goes in for another kiss that Findaráto leans away from again, and then he straightens out to glare.

“Have I done something to offend you?” He doesn’t sound particularly ready to apologize.

Findaráto’s never required apologies. Findaráto accepts Morifinwë just the way he is: cloudy and troublesome, but loyal and brave and all together too alluring. As bright as Morifinwë is dark, Findaráto chirps, “I simply did not come to see you today.”

Morifinwë blinks. His confusion and annoyance is clearly mounting in equal measure. 

Findaráto lies, “I came to see Turcafinwë.”

Morifinwë’s eyes flash, and he snarls instantly, “Liar.” Findaráto just laughs, pleasant and twinkling. His cousin does know him so well. Morifinwë insists, “You never come to see any of them but me.”

That isn’t entirely true. But he never comes _specifically_ to see them on an individual basis: it’s the whole family or his beloved Morifinwë. Now he proves himself by turning to open the satchel that hangs at his side, and from it, he pulls a coiled length of twisted fabric, lined in metal fastenings. He presents it to Morifinwë and explains, “A collar for Huan” 

“You bring a gift for my brother?” Morifinwë rephrases. Findaráto’s not sure he’s ever seen Morifinwë ever look so dangerous. It’s already thrilling. Findaráto has to fight to conceal the true extent of his enjoyment.

He idly suggests, “If you are so jealous, my Moryo...” but then he pauses, lifting the collar up, and presses the embroidered front against Morifinwë’s throat for demonstration, “...I suppose I could gift it to you instead.”

Morifinwë quips, “If you wish a beast to play with, I have claws just as sharp.”

Findaráto laughs again. But it comes out a tad nervous. That isn’t _precisely_ what he wants. The comparison is close. Findaráto makes a show of eyeing the line of it against Morifinwë’s windpipe, drinking in the way Morifinwë regards him in return. It’s still going well; Morifinwë hasn’t been put off by the idea of being called an animal. He’s always been guttural, raw. Ferocious. Findaráto dares to wrap the ends around Morifinwë’s neck and fasten the clasp at the back. He pulls it tightly snug, but slides one finger under just in case, to make certain Morifinwë can breathe. Morifinwë allows it, simply stands still and stoic with his molten gaze fixed to Findaráto. Findaráto’s the one to lose his breath when the collar’s correctly in place.

He memorizes the sight of it, then lifts his eyes to meet Morifinwë’s and asks, quiet but thick, “Will you be my beast, then? Let me mark you with it, let me lead you about?” His index finger slips beneath the collar again, hooking around, tugging it lightly forward like a leash. He half expects Morifinwë to hiss and jerk away. 

But Morifinwë behaves, even arches in at the pull, and when Findaráto tightens his grip and begins to push down, Morifinwë folds and lets himself be guided to the floor. He sinks all the way to his knees, his silken hair slithering off his broad shoulders as his neck cranes back, face haughtily tilted up. Sat at Findaráto’s feet like some leashed pet, Morifinwë asks just as deeply, “Is that what you really wish for...?” Findaráto can feel a familiar tingling along his skin, a dizzying warmth, a coiling _want_ in his stomach. Morifinwë leans forward, his chiseled jaw halting just before Findaráto’s crotch, and he finishes in a predatory growl, “Or do you wish to be mounted and ravaged by some feral creature you can barely control?”

Findaráto had meant to play the game out more. But, as usual, Morifinwë’s successfully shattered his defenses. There will be time later, he hopes, to draw out the foreplay with this new twist, to try again with a proper setup, a well-rehearsed scene, something more than the coarse _sex_ Morifinwë always tempts out of him. Now, Findaráto finds his knees buckling, and then he’s on the ground, his hands in Morifinwë’s hair, and he slams their mouths together the way Morifinwë wanted to at first. The way they usually greet one another when they’re alone. Nothing feeds Findaráto’s light like Morifinwë’s fire. 

The kiss is bruising. Morifinwë’s rarely gentle with him. He’s never gentle in return. He shoves his tongue forward and gnaws at Morifinwë’s pliant mouth like the animal he taunts, until Morifinwë shoves him back hard enough to throw him to the floor.

He lies where he’s tossed, and Morifinwë crawls over him, looming up on all fours, only to pause. Looking suddenly thoughtful, Morifinwë says, “...This would never have fit around Huan’s neck...”

Of course, he had to catch on eventually. Findaráto just smiles and shrugs.

Morifinwë snarls, “You conniving little wench...” and dives back down to claim him.


End file.
